Bengt O Björklund

The imaginary bar

It was the mumbling late at night, the distant hum of indiscernible voices, echoes of old cars on wet streetsand the memory of a live breeze saxophonethat finally tooled its way into my sensesand as suddenly left me here to hang dry.

The piano plays into the bending door, the guitar is just too lazy to get serious.Me I just want this moment to explodeinto something more than just this.The old man at the bar, if you want, The beard that needs to be trimmed.